


We're Killing Each Other

by Secrets_of_history



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Insomnia, Internal Conflict, Out of Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secrets_of_history/pseuds/Secrets_of_history
Summary: Over the years Ilsa has come to learn one thing – that Will hates even the mere concept of her being in pain.
Relationships: William Brandt/Ilsa Faust
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	We're Killing Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> First of all, I must confess that I'm not entirely new to this fandom. And while I am a sucker for everything concerning Ethan and Ilsa (these two just break my heart into tiny pieces, but I would gladly die for Ilsa, because she is nothing short of an amazing, totally badass spy Queen), I also have a very strange affinity for creating unusual ships practically out of the blue. Hence why this fic even exists. Basically, I've written this as an outline for much larger plot which involves Will and Ilsa being together, but I have yet to figure out the details in terms of how and when, and to this day, I only know the why. So, any plot ambiguity lurking within here, is done on purpose. Nonetheless, I hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> Side note: I'm also a sucker for dark and angsty. Beware.

The sharp sting of a slap reverberating through her brain jolts Ilsa awake.

She stares, totally uncomprehending. Brandt stares back, his eyes burning hot with rage.

Ilsa is the one to blink first, breaking eye contact to look at something else.

It's the water. Of course, it’s water. The goddamn riverbed. Where else she could ever fucking be?

The second slap makes her jump. She throws a reflexive blow, not really looking to where she's aiming it at, and of course, her clumsiness doesn’t play out in her favor. Brandt easily dodges her hand, twisting her wrist over into an unnatural angle, then releasing her hand almost instantly.

Ilsa does not find it in herself to do anything else. Her face is on fire but having Will to look at her as he is now, actually is even more unbearable.

Over the years Ilsa has come to learn one thing – that Will hates even the mere concept of her being in pain. Actually, he becomes rather completely unhinged every time she's hurt, doesn't matter in what way, be it physical or emotional.

The thought that comes to Ilsa's mind is yet too quick and fleeting for her brain being able to fully grasp its true meaning. She just thinks about it: absentmindedly, almost robotically, serving it merely as an afterthought in itself. All the while feeling Will's frantic and absolutely furious gaze piercing through her skin.

He truly hates to see her in pain.

He hates it even more when _he_ is the one to inflict _her_ pain – she remembers – vividly, suddenly, - when Brandt brutally yanks Ilsa by her hair, making her yelp (because, yes, she's just _that_ deep down into the rabbit hole), but not to hurt her, no, never to hurt her. He does so just to keep her alert, to keep her with him and away from the black pit created by her own nightmares.

He yanks again, keeping her hair braided in a tight fist, and Ilsa relishes in the feeling, hissing as the pain lances through her skull.

”Keep your eyes open,” he instructs, his voice like gravel.

Ilsa blinks her eyes open, dumbfounded. She wasn't even aware she'd allowed herself to slip them shut.

“I am,” she says, lying out of the force of habit. Always lying, because that's the only way she knows how to survive.

”No, just two seconds ago, you weren't,” he growls under his breath.

”I'm fucking tired,” Ilsa spits, but strangely enough, there's no malice in her words, just the truth. She's really tired; she's weary, down to her very bones. ”Is that what you wanted to hear, Brandt?“

Brandt doesn't say anything, instead just pining her with the same fierce stare. Ilsa suddenly becomes very aware of the wound on his scalp. The white of the bandage is no longer white. It's gushing red in the bright moonlight.

“You're bleeding,” she says weakly, trying to force the words past the lump in her throat.

She tries to touch him, to reach for him. Will angrily slaps her hand away; his other hand still being fisted in her hair.

“Oh no, you don't,” he growls.

“But you're – the blood –”

He pulls her hard by the hair again, cutting her off mid-sentence. Ilsa does not scream this time, choosing simply to grit her teeth instead, but it is not anger that she feels.

It's fear.

“Will, please –”

He resolutely ignores her plea, dragging her in the direction of their temporary hiding base. She doesn't resist.

She simply _cannot_ resist. She couldn't resist even if she wanted to.

They continue their way towards the house. He keeps her upright all the time, keeps her present with himself, and it’s a tight fist, and he’s hurting her and he _knows_ he is hurting her, but Ilsa doesn’t utter a single word of protest, because she perfectly knows as well: in truth, that’s not really pain at all.

It’s not pain. She’s all too familiar with pain, too accustomed to it, not to recognize her old nemesis.

If only she could just stop being so fucking afraid. Afraid of losing him again. Of losing Eve again. Afraid of the shadows lurking in every corner, waiting greedily just for a single opportunity to consume her, afraid of innocent sounds that cause her heart to skyrocket frantically inside her chest. Afraid of anything, of everything, but most of all – of herself.

If only she could stop being so terrified.

In all fairness, Ilsa doesn’t even believe that one day it actually would become a possibility.

Once they’re inside the house, Brandt drags her all the way to the bedroom and proceeds to unceremoniously dump her onto the mattress, while simultaneously closing the door shut behind them. Ilsa doesn’t say anything. She cannot risk speaking up: if she does she might as well just throw up.

The room spins around, making her dizzy with vertigo. Ilsa props herself up on her elbows to cast a glance at Will, but it makes her feel even much worse, _so much worse,_ and his head is _bleeding._

“Will –“ Ilsa tries again but he stops her right there.

“For how long,” he starts, voice akin to thunder, “for how fucking long you haven't been sleeping?”

She struggles to sit upright, keeping her hands planted firmly on the bed. Looks at him straight in eye, trying hard not to avert her eyes, because his wound is bleeding, and she knows, even in her near delirium state of mind, that it has nothing to do with her imagination playing tricks on her.

“Ever since Italy,” she confesses. She's too tired for yet another lie. “Ever since we got here. I just – I couldn’t bring myself – with you, laying there so still and lifeless… and I couldn’t. I was scared. I still am. I'm fucking terrified.”

Suddenly, Ilsa just can’t take it anymore, exploding:

“I wish that you would just fucking let me change that bandage, for Christ's sake!”

She springs up to her feet, tiredness forgotten, but Brandt doesn’t let her reach the bathroom. Ilsa finds herself pinned to the nearest wall in the matter of seconds with her hands being crossed behind her back. Will is gripping her wrists tightly to make sure she won’t be able to break free.

“Why on Earth didn’t you tell me anything? “ Ilsa would have never thought that someone could look so angry and so remorseful at the same time, yet his face is a perfect storm of both fury and guilt, leaving her breathless. “Jesus, how could I have been so fucking blind that I didn’t see it?”

She struggles to get her hands free from under his grasp, yearning to touch him but it’s pointless. It's no use. He just won’t let her, and she can’t possibly force him – not in his current state.

She can’t force him to get off her. And he _knows that_, so he deftly manipulates her into obedience.

She hates obedience. She hates being weak.

She cannot bring herself not to love him.

“It’s not your fault,” she stops resisting; it's futile anyway. Her voice breaks with the strain of unshed tears. “It was never your fault. The fault is all mine.”

“No,” Brandt shakes his head (his bleeding head, and Ilsa can’t look at it, cannot bear to look at it, never being able to tear her eyes away or stop constantly reminding herself that it wasn’t that bad, the bullet never actually got to his brain, and the lacerations won’t break open no matter how deep they go) – “Don’t you dare. Don’t you even dare to say that.”

“Will, please - ” she begs again, switching to Swedish on instinct, but hearing her mother’s tongue this time doesn’t have on him the same effect as it used to, leaving him absolutely unrelenting when he captures her mouth in a fierce and bruising kiss. She kisses him back, whimpering, and there's decidedly no elegance to it. Only desperation that comes across as pure and unbidden aggression.

Their teeth clash in a battle of wills. He's still pinning her to the wall with the weight of his own body, completely engulfing her, crushing her, and it feels so rectifying, so painful and achingly wonderful that Ilsa cries out, tearing her mouth away from his.

She feels dizzy and out of breath. She feels brutalized and purified at the same time, washed clean by his force alone but still, it is not enough.

She doubts that she will ever get enough of him.

Her wrists ache, shoulder muscles straining with the effort of keeping her upright while being pinned by him. His lips venture to her neck, teeth biting into the flesh, and Ilsa's knees begin to quiver, giving out.

“Stop,” she croaks. “You’re hurting me, stop.”

He does as she asked. Pierces her with an intense stare.

“Am I?”

Ilsa shakes her head, not at all caring about the tears that stream ceaselessly down her cheeks.

“No. Of course you’re not; you never could. But let me redress your wound, please. “

“It’s not bleeding that badly,” Will says in a deceptively quiet way (that maybe could have fooled someone else, but never her).

The tips of his fingers pass over the slant of her cheekbone in a reverent caress. Ilsa sighs, the sound almost inaudible, as she gives in. He kisses her on the forehead. Runs his lips over her fluttering eyelids; gentle, oh so gentle, barely there. He drinks slowly from her mouth, taking his time with it, like nothing bad could ever happen, and Ilsa wishes so badly, more than anything in the world, to believe him, when all of the sudden, Will releases the grip he had on her hands, taking her into his arms in one dizzying swoop.

That is her only warning, and there's absolutely no gentleness in what happens next.

It’s a frenzy.

Ilsa screams at the sensation of blood rushing back into her arms, but Brandt clearly is in no mood for reprieves, however short they might be. She can see it in his eyes, stormy gray and intent with purpose as he ties her aching hands to keep them planted above her head. He utilizes his own belt to do so. Ilsa tugs at the bindings, chuckling dryly through the tears that are still cascading down her cheeks.

“What the fuck is this, Will?”

“What?” he smirks, eyes crinkled with the shadow of a threat, of impeding danger. “You’ve never been tied up before?”

“Would it flatter you, if I'd said that you are my first? “

“Oh, most definitely.”

He undresses, slowly taking his T-shirt off, jeans and boxers following suit. For some godforsaken reason Ilsa thinks about averting her eyes to the side, but of course, is unable to actually look away. Brandt seems to have read her thoughts, however, because he smiles - broadly and decidedly unkindly.

“What?” he asks, his tone almost nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Ilsa finds it hard to breathe past the lump in her throat.

His kiss is bruising. He doesn’t let her touch him while he undresses her, no matter how much Ilsa strains towards him, wanting and desperate.

He pins her to the bed by his knees on her thighs. She cries out a curse. He chuckles. The bastard, he actually chuckles.

“Take that fucking belt off,” she hisses. “Untie me.”

“Oh, not yet, darling, not yet. And as much as I’d love to hear you scream, you’d have to be quiet.”

“You’re such a – “

And then, with a one swift move from him, she's left wordless and gasping for air.

He is both ardent and punishing. Caring and crackling with fury. He leaves biting marks everywhere he can reach only to immediately soothe with the sting with his tongue, the grip he has on her thighs almost crushing, and he’s going deeper and deeper with each stroke, making her heave with short gasps.

“Will –“ she can’t possibly manage to break her hands free, but she needs to be free so desperately she practically weeps with it.

He doesn’t listen. Neither does he stop.

He's completely merciless. He fucks her in such a way that Ilsa almost wishes he'd stop simultaneously imploring him to never stop; she wishes she could stop being such a tangled mess, never being able to voice her feelings, because no matter how good she is at using words, she gets completely lost when it comes to telling the truth, and the truth is, of course, the truth is always so simple that it hurts.

She loves him.

She's in love with him. It’s so fucking simple that she wants to laugh, she wants to scream, only she cannot do neither because she has to be quiet; and her lips are bleeding because she had sunk her teeth into the flesh with such force that the skin just broke open.

She loves him.

If only she could just say it out loud. She loves him, she loves him, and he's moving inside her still, with the weight of his whole body being down on her, and it feels so wonderful that it's almost unbearable.

“Ilsa,” she hears him calling out. It's a haze, everything’s spinning, torn off from its axis. “Ilsa, sweetheart, look at me.”

She forces her eyes to open, blinking furiously to make out his looming shadow. He fixes her with an intense stare, his eyes burning right through her, and suddenly, just like that - her hands are untied.

That was all she ever needed.

Ilsa sits upright, crying out at the unexpected change of angle. He doesn’t find it in himself to reprimand her for not being quiet because she clings to him like a drowning woman to a lifeline. Her hands claw at his skin as if she wishes for nothing more but to break him open so that she could climb inside. He hisses, each of his thrusts becoming now more and more sloppy by the second, and then he growls, the sound low in his throat, and pushes so deep that her entire world goes completely blank.

She sinks her teeth into his shoulder to keep herself from screaming her release as Will growls under his breath like a wounded beast. Ilsa does not weaken her hold of him while he gently lowers her back on the bed, making her whimper at the loss of contact when he slips out of her.

She reaches out to touch his temple. He doesn’t stop her this time, allowing her to look at the wound.

“Told you it wasn’t that bad,” he quips, going for lighthearted. Ilsa finds herself unable to hold back a smile.

“Perhaps I should listen to you more often.”

“You definitely should.”

She gives him a slap on the face for that. Will kisses the back of her hand, laughter evident in his eyes.

“I love you,” Ilsa says earnestly, feeling relieved for the first time in the past three years.

“I know. I love you too,” he answers back without a moment of hesitation, and Ilsa only then realizes that she had uttered her confession in Swedish. “You really need to get some sleep though.”

“What a way to ruin the mood,” Ilsa quips dryly.

Brandt gives her a heartfelt chuckle, sobering up in the next instant.

“Close your eyes, Ilsa. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And so she does.

She falls asleep within minutes.

It’s her first time of a sound sleep without nightmares from as long as she can remember.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. It's weird, isn't it? I mean, Jeremy Renner and Rebecca Ferguson barely had any interaction in Rogue Nation, but strangely enough, it didn't stop me, so here we are.


End file.
